


head back, eyes closed (deep breath, let go)

by letterfromathief



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Enchanted Forest, Bartender Emma Swan, Blacksmith Captain Hook | Killian Jones, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-25 08:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6188215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letterfromathief/pseuds/letterfromathief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian has a way of complimenting Emma that always leaves a blush in her cheeks, but it takes one drunken night for him to learn just how far it goes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. bear with me

**Author's Note:**

> For my 1K followers celebration, this was the most voted for fic. I wanted to finish it all by Tuesday, but it started getting rather long, so part 1 today!

“My sweet lass, can I bother you for a drink?”

Killian turns to the speaker, eyebrow raised at the nerve of the man, and then to Emma who hushes him with a look, spinning around to face the man with an easy smile, even though her fingers twitch impatiently along the hip of her skirt.

“What are you having?” she asks.

The seedy sailor leans in, tattooed elbows on the table, salacious glance on Emma’s cleavage. “Whatever you’re having,” he says, keeping his eyes locked on Emma’s chest, which is a pity because he misses the expression of murder that crosses her face. Some warning might’ve helped the poor sod, not that he looks like he has the sense to have heeded it, especially when he reaches out his hand towards her waist, which Emma easily sidesteps.

“I’m having none of what you're implying. Now either you ask me for a drink - I suggest the beer, we don’t water it down here - or you can leave,” Emma says sharply.

She leans back on her heels, her eyebrows raised and an impatient, challenging tilt to her head.

“Is this how you treat your customers?” the sailor spits.

Killian shifts on his stool, leaving his own glass forgotten on the counter. Emma’s silent for a moment, which is a feat - not that she’s prone to anger at the slightest provocation, and this definitely isn’t the slightest provocation - but she is prone to giving people what they deserve and he, in Killian’s completely unbiased opinion, deserves to have his arse handed to him.

“This is how I treat people who think that serving them will lead to me servicing them,” Emma says. “Now was that a beer, a rum, something...sweeter?”

She smiles, not a hint of sweetness in it.

The sailor notices then, how she holds the two empty beer mugs in one hand, and the way the other is placed on her hip, right where one of Killian’s own blades, some of his finest dagger work, hangs within its sheath.

“I’ll take the beer,” he grumbles, eyeing her hand with uncontested focus instead of her breasts now.

Emma shifts her weight on her feet and says, “Payment first.”

He slams the silver on the table and Emma lifts another brow, picking it up with her glass holding hand and slipping it within the front of her apron. She turns and Killian keeps a careful watch on the man as she does so, not that Emma’s left herself open to attack or that the sailor seems brave enough to toy with her anymore, but Killian won’t let anything to happen to her.

(If he can help it goes unsaid.)

The man's gaze roves from Emma’s back to Killian. Killian stares him down again until Emma reaches him and swats him on the shoulder, “Killian.”

“Yes, beautiful?”

He doesn’t see Emma shake her head from behind the counter, but he knows she’s doing so with that annoyed pink to her cheeks that she seems to save just for him.

“I can handle myself without your death stares,” Emma replies.

“Death stares would imply that I could actually end the man with my looks. Unfortunately, I have to resort to more primitive means.” He sighs in marked disappointment.

“Primitive? Didn’t you just tell me the other day that ‘swordsmanship is an art, Emma, don’t swing your blade so hard, Emma, watch out for my good -’"

Killian swivels around to face her and her grin. “I believe I also told you that insulting me does you no favors.”

She drops one of the filled beers to the counter and says, “No, no, you didn’t.”

“Well, it must have slipped my mind. I am telling you now, however,” he says.

“Killian,” Emma starts. She waits until he draws his gaze from her quickly moving hands to look at her before she voices, “Is that why you keep coming back for more?”

“No, it’s your dazzling wit and uncanny ability to understand my ramblings that keeps me coming back,” he says.

She ducks her head, a huffed breath leaving her lips and then she grabs the beers she filled off the counter, placing them on a tray, and bustles past him again, balancing the tray on her shoulder as she sets each one off at their corresponding tables with ease, her skirts swishing and swaying with her dancing feet.

Gods, but she’s beautiful, even when she has her hand on her hip, dagger ready to strike worthless men - or perhaps, especially then, when she’s the take no-nonsense Emma that he loves, the one who’ll set the man’s beer down with a smile, and when she turns back towards Killian, have that smile shift into one that’s real - soft, small, sweet, delighted.

(There’s not one word he could use to describe it, really.)

(Jaw-dropping, maybe? He’ll need to work on this.)

-

He watches her work the rest of the night, alternatively bothering her and leaving her be while he takes his dinner and follows it up with as many watered down rums as she’s willing to give him. At least, that’s what she tells him they are, but they taste as potent as the one she shared with him during the Seaside Festival and he suspects that it is only something that she tells him so when the night is through and they’re playing dice at one of the cleared tables, he’s more accepting of her taking all his gold.

Emma’s a cheat, but at least she does it well.

“So how about it, love? Give me a chance to win something back,” he pleads.

“Your dignity?” He gapes, affronted, and she snorts. “Or did you mean that I should give you a chance to lose more of your gold?”

She shakes her head, patting him gently on the arm and enunciating very clearly - he’s sober enough that she doesn’t have to and they both know it, her mouth twitching despite her seriously stated, “I’m not trying to own you, Jones.”

He drops his hand over the one she has on his arm, rubbing at her soft fingers with his calloused ones. She shivers slightly, curling her fingers tight around his bicep. Emma’s smile fades and her lips part. He watches her breaths leave her, one after another.

“You could if you wanted. I’d have no better owner than you.”

She blinks at him, and slips her hand out from underneath his.

“Next time, Jones, I’ll play you for your heart, mind, body or soul,” she assures him.

“That, my dearest Swan, is a package deal,” he says. She nods, a dip in her brow like ‘Oh’ and he nods in confirmation, “You cannot have one without the other.”

“Pity,” Emma says, eyes sweeping over his lips. “I think you’d be better off without that mouth.”

His gaze falls on hers, his stare held a little longer on the full pink of her lips before he says, “Why, Swan, do you not like my inane chatter?”

“You said it yourself,” Emma says, laughing and leaning forward again, elbows on the table.

He reaches out to rub her shoulder and she stiffens before relaxing, a low groan echoing as he adds the other hand, massaging both her shoulders gently. She slumps further on the table, and says, “I needed this. I swear I was going to kill him.”

If it were anyone else, he’d be confused at the turn in the conversation - he’s quick on his feet, quick with his mouth, which Emma is probably right that he’d be better off without because as much as he’s good at talking himself out of situations, he’s just as talented at talking himself into them. But Emma was holding that in for too long, and he was already poised for this, for soothing the ache in her tired muscles with his hands, easing her into relaxation.

“No, you weren’t. You’re too good for that,” Killian says.

She mutters something that sounds suspiciously (and probably accurately) like a mimicked, ‘You’re too good for that, my ass.’ Lifting her head slightly, she corrects in a tired slur, “I was going to punch him, at least.”

He can believe that.

“That you are not above, too true, lass.”

“ _Thanks_.”

“I’m just being honest. I’m attempting the straight and narrow path,” he says.

“How’s that path working out for you? You seemed to have stumbled quite a bit, Ruby had quite the tale for me the other day,” He groans, and she continues. “So, Sir Honest, what were _you_ going to do if he got out of control?”

“Kill him,” Killian says.

A beat passes, not too quiet because the fire crackles and pops and he keeps rubbing at her shoulders, the shift of fabric breaking the silence.

“You’re terrible.”

“I am and you’re not. That’s why we work so well together. Two sides of the same coin,” he says.

She protests, lifting her head higher. There’s a lovely shade of pink to her cheeks again and a steel to her gaze as she says, “No, I meant you’re a terrible liar, but, also, terrible. Terrible at everything.”

He smiles, his hands creeping closer to the bare skin around her collar, fingers just brushing over the line of fabric. Her lashes flutter as her heat meets his and he murmurs, “Not everything. I give excellent massages.”

“Mmm,” she hums her agreement. After a beat, she slumps down again and sighs contentedly, “That you do.”

-

It’s his break time, everyone in the village knows by now that he uses this hour to rest and collect himself, that it’s only an emergency that should have them banging at his forge.

Which, coincidentally, Emma is literally banging at his forge, hot poker in hand clanking hard enough against the cast iron that it’s echoing in his head.

“Killian, we need _help_ ,” she says.

“We is?” he asks.

He looks about and then Emma inclines her head to the side and he adjusts his view. At her ankle is a little lad, wielding a thick but broken chain wrapped around his tiny shoulder. There’s dirt on his chin and soot in his hair and Killian has no idea where Emma collected this little ragamuffin, he isn’t a boy that he’s seen in the village, and Killian knows every child here, not through any fault of his own, but Emma seems to collect them and so they’re bound to end up in his sphere.

After all, no collection is complete without the local blacksmith, reverse Peter Pan, which is the worst insult she could muster after a whined “You’re as bad as them, Killian,” complete with a deep pout over her soaked dress from him throwing her over his shoulder and dunking them both into the lake on the orders of the little lads and lasses.

He gives Emma due credit, reverse Peter Pan is a dire insult that a lesser man might take to heart.

“Ah, that chain seems to be broken, lad,” Killian indicates with wave of his hand.

“I broke it,” the boy exclaims in a lisp, revealing two missing front teeth when he grins. He seems to remember himself after a moment and whispers his deepest, _darkest_ secret if the shifty eyes and tugging at Emma’s sleeves is anything to go by, “I was hunting dragons, and this one snapped it right in half with its teeth.”

Killian nods, glancing up at Emma who mouths, “Grumpy’s bolt cutters.”

“Ah, I see, this dragon was a particularly vicious one no doubt, with a roar like that of thunder.”

Emma shakes her head slightly, but he shrugs and she responds in kind, shrugging and nodding her affirmation. Yes, Grumpy’s voice is quite like that of thunder, particularly loud and usually announcing something that they could see with their very own eyes if he’d given them the chance to look.

“Yeah!” the boy agrees. He kicks at the dirt packed floor of Killian's forge and says, “Can you help me fix it?”

“Give me a chance to stretch out my legs and I’ll have it fixed up in no time at all,” Killian says. “It’s dangerous in here, so I’m going to have to take that from you and have you wait outside with Emma. I wouldn’t want anything to harm either of you.”

He stares at the boy but notes the quirk of Emma’s lips, like she’s unsure whether to smile or frown.

“Emma!”

“Yes, Roland?” she replies indulgently.

Roland - ah, he must be Lady Marian’s boy. Killian’s rather surprised he didn’t see the resemblance in their matching dimples and the adventurous spirit. Dragon hunting - he must want to be just like his mother.

“Is it alright?” Roland asks.

“Yes, it’s alright. Killian is the best blacksmith in all the realm,” she attests to this with a glance towards him that shouts, ‘I’m exaggerating for _his_ benefit, not yours,’ but Killian puffs up proudly anyway.

“If anyone can fix it, it’s him, and he’ll make it even better than before.”

“Really?”

Roland’s brown eyes round in awe.

Emma confirms, “Oh yes.”

“Wow.”

Roland turns his wondering eyes on Killian, and Killian lifts his gaze to Emma, his expression to match the one on Roland’s face no doubt as she pushes her hair back and licks her thumb, too focused on rubbing away the dirt on Roland’s chin to notice.

“Emma’s too kind to me, but she isn’t lying, I’ll have you back to catching dragons even fiercer than Grumpy.”

“Like Lily?” Roland asks.

Emma lifts the chain from off Roland’s shoulders and Killian crosses the distance between them to take it from her hands.

“You are too kind,” he assures her quietly.

She opens her mouth but whatever she’s going to say gets caught in her throat. She looks away as Roland tugs on her skirt again, and whispers, “I need to go.”

“You’d think I was the village nanny,” Emma comments softly, but she lifts Roland up in her arms.

As small as he is, it doesn’t seem like much of a struggle except he giggles and repeats, “I need to _go_ , Emma.”

“And we’re going just as soon as I thank Killian,” she says.

“No need to thank me, Swan. Just buy me a drink later,” he says.

“I’ll discount it,” she barters.

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“Where else would you go for your drinks?” she teases.

“Where else indeed…” He scratches at his chin and says, “I hear Granny’s expanding her selection.”

“See if Ruby will serve you just as well as me,” Emma mutters.

They share a look and she warns him off with a glance towards the little boy snuggling in her arms.

“We’re going, Roland,” she says quickly, but not quick enough to hide the flush rising from her neck to her cheeks, the frown on her lip and furrow in her brow.

“Thank you, Killian,” Roland says.

He waves at Killian as Emma strides out the door, and whispers again, loud enough for Killian to hear his assurances, “You are very kind, Emma.”

“Thank you, Roland,” he hears before she disappears out of view.

-

He’d be hard pressed to find a better spot to lay out and die than the field of daisies behind Emma’s bar. The grass is soft and sweet smelling, and if he blinks open one eye, he can see Emma’s booted feet coming to a stop beside him and can feel her knees brush his side, her hand sweeping over his chest.

“Heart’s still beating,” she says. “Get up.”

“I’m mortally wounded, love. Go on without me,” he says.

“I barely tapped you,” she argues.

She grabs a fistful of his shirt and tugs, and he blinks open his eyes, looking down at the fabric pulled clear over his chest before shooting her an offended look, “Are you trying to undress me for all the world to see?”

Emma folds, releasing him and throwing her hands up in the air, “Says the man who doesn’t seem to know how buttons work.” She falls back on her butt on the ground, drawing her knees up to her chest. “Shirts, Killian, they’re meant to be closed.”

“Are they? Gods, love, you are a fount of information,” he says.

“Don’t condescend. It isn’t cute,” she says.

She tugs up a daisy and curls the stem around her finger, and he sits up on his elbows and says, “Oh, but that is.” He nods at the daisy around her finger and she fumbles, dropping it to the grass.

“I was just - can we finish this or what?”

Killian sits up fully and rubs at his shoulder. “You may think I’m exaggerating, but I swear to you that I would never deny your skill with a blade. I can already feel the bruise flaring.”

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Don’t be,” he says. She holds his gaze so he continues. “You keep me on my toes.” He looks at his feet. “Or off them as is the case.”

She looks away this time, off into the sea of daisies, muttering, “Stop teasing me.”

“Oh, but I do love the way you blush when I do.”

She wrenches up a handful of grass and tosses it to the side. “If you’re too tired to go on, I should go help Ella set the tables for the evening.”

As she stands, Killian quickly follows, on his feet in time to steady her on hers. She glances down at his hands on her arms, just staring for a moment before she pulls away.

“No, stay. I can handle it.”

“Are you sure?”

He smirks. “I suppose it’s only right that I return the favor.”

He picks up his wooden sword and she picks up hers, spinning the blade in her hand, a move David taught her, no doubt. Killian’s ( _not_ jealous but) surprised she’d go to anyone but him for lessons; Dave’s never managed to beat him - and David doesn’t have going for him what Emma does, a wispy blonde curl of hair falling in her face and a broad grin puffing her cheeks as she holds her wooden blade at the ready.

“Come on. Return that favor,” Emma says.

“Only happy to,” Killian says, and lunges.

She gets him on his back again - and well, he’s only happy to be there.

-

“Festivals are killing me,” Emma moans as she locks the door to the exit of the final customers of the evening. She trudges over to Killian’s table, dropping wearily onto the bench beside him. “My feet are killing me.”

“I could rub them for you,” he says.

She stares at him, eyes wide and seeing more than he can fathom. His own smile wavers under the uncertainty of her gaze before she relaxes, shoulders dropping, “I need a drink.”

Killian’s already on his feet before she can ask, grasping at the keys at his waist, the only other copy of the ones he made to fit the complex lock he created solely for her. Virtually impossible to pick, Emma had taken a crack at a number of them before he made one even her skillful fingers couldn’t unlock.

“Not the good stuff,” Emma says.

He hums, ignoring her order while he unlocks the alcohol safe under the bar. He glances at the labels - there’s some new stock - and grabs the most interesting one, a yellow-green drink and his birthday rum. He knew she was lying when she said it was solely for a special occasion for the bottle is half gone and there’s two empty ones there, like she’s been pouring it for him almost daily.

(Perhaps, he drinks a bit too much.)

He locks the safe behind him and grabs some glasses with much less care than Emma, his fingers wobbling and nearly dropping one of the glasses (because here’s the thing about hot iron, it doesn't tend to be as slippery as a half-dried glass). Killian returns to the table, setting everything down.

“What’s this stuff, then?” he asks, waving the unlabeled bottle at Emma.

She lifts up off the table, stares at it a moment and, mouth curving into a smile, she says, “Tequila from the land of the Aztecs.”

Killian settles down in his seat, excitedly grabbing for the bottle. “Ooh, that’s far.”

“Gonna travel there, Captain?” Emma asks.

He grins at her remark, Emma’s asking not the sharp jab it would be from other inquiring minds.

“All in due time, love,” he replies.

“When the sea beckons?”

Her reply is familiar, often said, sometimes teased, and sometimes said like this, with a smile on her lips, a careful look in her eye, and a seriousness - sometimes, her belief in him astounds him, that she can play at dubious to his intentions all she wants, but when it comes to this, she never doubts.

Sometimes it astounds him; sometimes it just makes him wonder, stare at her in wonder until she blinks and looks away.

“And the wind is fair,” Killian finally gives the familiar, tried and true answer.

“Tonight seems like a fair night,” Emma says.

She keeps her head ducked away from him, as she turns to look out the open window, and “Ah, yes,” he answers, taking in her profile. “Oh, Swan, you have a flower petal in your hair.” The Middlemist flower petal clings between waves of her hair, almost hidden, but Killian is delicate when he pulls it free. As his hand retreats from her head, she turns back towards him. Holding out the petal to her, he says, “Make a wish, it’s good luck.”

“To have flower petals in my hair? Who knows what kind of bugs could've blown in with it?” Emma says.

“I’m sure Archie would take offense at that,” Killian drawls his reply.

Emma rolls her eyes. “He knows that he’s the only bug for me.”

Her eyes twinkle with amusement and he returns the spark with a teasing, “Charmed you, I see.”

“Stole my heart with his chirping,” Emma says. She fans herself, an awfully accurate imitation of some of Gaston’s devotees, while she says, “And that thing he does when he molts? Oh, it takes my breath away.”

“And what a lovely sight that is to behold. Archie is a blessed man.”

She stills and after a moment and a considered look at him, she blows the petal out of his still open palm, letting it fall to the floor. “Bug,” Emma corrects, shifting around in her seat, hand twitching towards her hair like she’s about to check for Archie’s brethren, and then falling to her glass instead.

She takes a long drink of it, empties the glass in fact, and then settles back in her seat, sighing softly.

“It’s so smooth,” Emma says.

Killian eyes her empty glass. “Don’t drink too fast. You haven’t eaten.”

“I had a full meal while you and Ruby were chatting about your latest walk on the straight and narrow,” Emma retorts.

“You certainly made the attempt to devour a full meal in that _short_ time span, but I saw you let the little rascals run off with your bird.”

“Eh, they could use seconds. They have to keep up their energy somehow,” Emma says, shrugging it off.

“Aye that they do. Ingrid’s is a tough job. She’s a remarkable woman, what she does for those children.”

“Yeah, remarkable,” Emma agrees, her tone fond.

“You know what else is quite remarkable, Swan? How you manage to have not one, but two petals in your hair.”

There’s one at the crown of her head, just peeking through the strands. She bends helpfully, and Killian plucks it out while she mutters derisively, “Water me, I’m blooming.”

“I suppose that’s true. You look more radiant with each passing day.”

Emma doesn’t say a word to that, just slips her fingers around the lip of the bottle and draws it to her mouth, drinking straight from it.

Killian isn’t worried, they’ve both done this before, but usually he’s the first one to suggest they just go for it, have a night where they just lay themselves out on her bar floor.

He regards her thoughtfully, and then decides to put said thought aside for the moment, gathering on to his feet again while he says, “I’m getting us some of those chips.”

“No,” Emma moans. “Those were expensive.”

“I’ll pay you for them. Your enjoyment is well worth the gold.”

“I - you need to stop,” Emma mumbles, sounding utterly frustrated, her voice rough and - there was a moment where he thought she might’ve, there’ve been a few moments when he knew she _would_ have, but he’s never seen her eyes look so bright with it. She licks her bottom lip, and he nearly misses a step, turning so quickly.

To prove his word, he drops the bag of gold inside the safe as well. He can well afford to reimburse her - even with the discounts he offers the townsfolk. Festivals always bring in the coin and he’s never lost for work with the ships in the harbor needing repair, and the sailors whose swords somehow always end up crooked or chipped - shoddy work from whoever forged them at their ports back home.

“Emma, that couldn’t have hit you that fast,” Killian says when he returns to the table, dropping the box of chips onto it and jolting her up from where she was resting her face on the table.

As he’s draining his glass - sour, he’s never had anything so sour in his life, but she’s right, it goes down smooth - she explains, “No, it didn’t. I’m just really out of it, I guess. The drink isn’t helping.”

Setting his glass back on the table, he slants towards her and offers, “Can I help instead?”

Her face goes red.

“Why do you always offer when you just can’t -” She fumbles with the words, giving up, and throws her hands in the air. “This is so.”

“What’s wrong, love?”

“Why don’t you pick another flower out of my hair and tell _me_ what’s wrong?” Emma says.

“Well, I’d love to assist you, but you’re fresh out of flowers,” Killian says drily, but he studies her with seriousness, her expression worrisome when she refuses to meet his eyes. “Emma, have I done something wrong?”

She laughs at that, even more worrisome and grabs for the bottle. Killian meets her hand in time, wrapping his own fingers around hers. She drops her hand immediately like his touch shocked her, clutching her hand to her chest like it offended her.

Killian stares.

“Pour me a glass,” she says.

He inclines his head, but her eyes don’t have that bright, drunken shine to them. Still, he pushes the box towards her before he asks, “Tequila or rum?”

“Rum, definitely.”

He waits until she’s popped open the box and stuffed a few chips in her mouth before he accedes to her request and the pleading in her eyes. Quiet settles between them, charged in a way that makes his hand itch up to his neck while she keeps glancing out the window in between hurried glances at him.

“So what were you and Ruby talking about?” Emma asks eventually.

Grateful for a chance to draw her back into conversation, Killian answers, “Granny and Snow have been sparring lately about her bird cage, and Ruby thinks I have the solution to their avian problem.”

“Do you?”

“A cage that isn’t a cage. I’ll put bars in Granny’s window, thin enough that the birds can’t get through, but with a place for them rest on the sill and a slot that Snow can push food and water through.”

“That’s...enlightened,” Emma says.

“Sound more impressed,” Killian murmurs.

“Not all of us can manage to sound in awe of every little thing a person does,” Emma says. She shakes herself and gapes at him slightly before she says in a rush, “Not that this isn’t a really wonderful thing. I’m just...bad at this.”

“Do go on. You’re making an effort, and that’s really all that matters to me.”

Instead of responding, she grabs for her glass again and pushes it towards him. Before he can protest, she stuffs more chips in her mouth and gives him a hushing look.

He shakes his head, a tinge of worry making him pour her less than usual. For himself, he pours the same amount, doesn’t need to be drunk right now. Not the way Emma seems to need to.

“Next time we celebrate Queen Guinevere’s birthday, we should call for less flower petals,” Emma says.

“But then what excuse will I have to comb my fingers through your hair?” Killian teases.

It clicks, sort of, puzzle piece falling into place, the way Emma falls across the table, frustration coloring her huffed breath and her hand holding her glass tight enough to leave deep prints on it before she lets it go.

“Do I need an excuse?” Killian prods gently.

When she doesn’t respond to that, he reaches over to her collapsed form. He takes one look at the shadow of Emma’s forehead, her wrinkled brow before passing his fingers through her hair, winding his fingers in the curls until his fingers meet the skin of her neck, soaking in the warmth there. He glances at her face again and her brow relaxes before his eyes, her chest rising and falling in a deep breath.

“Tell me - tell me something, Killian,” Emma says, soft and quiet.

Her head lifts just barely as he continues to stroke his fingers over her neck.

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me I’m beautiful again,” Emma says, and this time, he sees it in the pink of her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes - this time she’s actually drunk, well beyond sober - and she has that look in her eyes that she sometimes has, only when there’s nothing at risk, and he won’t press her later, she knows he won’t because he’s a gentleman and he’d never take advantage of a drunken confession.

He’d never take advantage of a drunken confession, true.

But this isn’t taking advantage, when he understands the blush in her cheeks now, sort of - and her request, the pieces are falling into place like her hair slipping between his fingers.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, and ducks her head back down on the table.

He keeps his hand stroking over her neck until she relaxes into slumber. Clearing away the glasses and locking the windows, he returns to her side and lifts her from the bench and carries her to her bedroom.

All he removes are her shoes before he settles down on the chaise lounge, staring up at the ceiling until his own eyes shut and he falls into sleep.

-

Emma wakes in a panic. It’s the only way to describe how she tries to dig a hole in her bed almost as soon as she can properly see and yells, “Killian.”

“Hmm? Is something wrong?”

He sounds like he woke up only moments before her, which is fantastic, absolutely, because it hasn’t given him much time to consider... _things_.

Like how desperate she is for his hand in her hair again - she just woke up, and she’s craving it, the affection, and it isn’t fair - she just _woke_ _up_ and these thoughts are already pressing in on her. She used to be better at controlling this _need._ Because she can no longer deny that’s what it is when she practically laid out before him, tired and _needy_ , begging him to call her beautiful.

She feels so ugly right now.

“Are you alright, Emma?”

“I’m -” She takes a deep, adult breath and like an adult and not a needy child, she says, “Please don’t tease me.”

Well, there goes sounding like an adult.

“I have no intention of doing so.”

That’s worse. His tone is worse because it’s concerned and serious, and he’s taking this seriously. Oh gods, she just wants to crawl under the sheets, but stupid her, she fell asleep at the table with his hand in her hair and his fingers rubbing her neck. Can’t hide under the sheets fully dressed.

Except for her shoes. He took her shoes off.

She shuts her eyes as she hears him rise and keeps them shut as he sits down on the edge of her bed. When she feels his hand brush her side, only then does she open them because that stupid, needy part of her craves that comfort enough to relax into it, to sigh into his caress.

“It’s not serious,” she tries to explain. Tries to lie, but his brow is furrowed in recognition of the lie, and so he must already know that she can’t stop herself no more than she can stop the truth now that he’s grabbing for her hand, tracing circles into her palm.

“I guess I was attention starved as a kid and it’s turned me into this,” Emma says. “I’m not trying to put this on you, but when you -” She waves her hand instead of saying it, _when you compliment me, when you tell me I’m beautiful, when you make me feel special._ “It really makes me happy.”

She doesn’t admit the second part. The worst part. The reason she always flushes red, not just shame, but worse, the heat beneath her skin spiking and making her want - she craves more than the words that caress her skin, wants things she shouldn’t want with him when they’re not and they can’t for reasons that can only be explained by that furrow in his brow, the concern that he’s had for her since day one, since the new blacksmith first set up shop and tried to flirt his way into the local bartender giving him free drinks.

She’d been tempted to charge him double just for the way he called her beautiful with such sincerity that it made her feel -

_Beautiful_.

His thumb finds the center of her palm and he presses there, squeezing lightly, while he says, “Wonderful. So, how shall we deal with this?”

She must’ve missed something in her own desire to run away.

“Deal with this?”

“Use me as you will, Emma. I’m only happy to help,” he says.

She looks at him fully, finally locking eyes with him and says, slowly, trying for understanding, “You want to shower me in praise?”

“Is that what you want?”

“That’s not -” She hisses a breath. “That’s not the issue.”

“I didn’t think there was an issue except that, although you may appreciate my compliments, you hate that you appreciate them as much as you do. So, my thinking is that perhaps you just need -” He searches her face. “You just need release, and I can give you that. Whenever you want it.”

“I don’t -”

Killian cuts her off. “You do. We’ve established that.”

“I do,” she shoots back. She hesitates, softer in her tone when she repeats, “I do.”

“You do,” Killian confirms.

She sighs, frustrated, but says, “Some days are worse than others. Maybe just…”

“You tell me the day, and we can talk it over. At night perhaps?”

Night sounds like a bad idea. Night sounds dangerous. Night sounds like late nights, falling asleep with his hand tangled in her hair, and his “Swan,” whispered into her skin. Night sounds like something she wants so badly she’s afraid to say it.

“Sure,” she agrees, nearly choking on the word.

“Good. Now that we’ve established that, I should be off. I think there’s some sweeping to be done at the forge. Those flower petals get everywhere.”

She feels her face flush again as he lets go of her hand and reaches for her hair. He combs his fingers through it one more time as he says, “I think I got them all.”

“Yeah,” Emma’s voice quavers as his fingers slide over her neck on their way out of her hair.

Killian smiles softly and then stands, stretching his arms over his head, his shirt rising inches and Emma jerks away from the sight of skin - she’s seen more, but it’s too strange a moment that she’s yet to wrap her head around for her to actually look at him, to take him in like that, when he’s walking past her now, and murmuring, “I’ll be around for dinner. Keep the seat for me, love?”

“Yeah,” she says, voice quaking again as he opens the door to her room and tips his head at her. When he disappears through the door, closing it silently behind him, Emma finally succumbs to the desire to hide, dragging the pillow over her face and letting the tears prickle at the corners of her eyes.

Relieved tears. She can’t feel anything more than that soaking the fabric of her pillow, his understanding given so easily. Like his words - and with the sincerity to match.

She isn’t sure she can handle this, whatever she just agreed to. Nights spent the way she spends her days, with his words coaxing blushes and heat and all those things she wishes she could deny that she needs.

Emma wipes the last of the tears away on her pillow and straightens up. She needs to finish cleaning the bar, and she can’t do that while she’s lying in bed, worrying about things that don’t even need to happen.

Unless she wants them to.

Unless…

 


	2. i'll take good care

Emma lays her hands flat to the table, the sturdy, smooth wood a cool comfort broken only by the heat of Killian at her elbow. He yawns loudly as he reaches for the glasses beside her. She glances at him but his head is tilted away from her so she can’t send him away with a look. She feels only capable of that right now, words difficult.

She doesn’t trust what she might say.

Not when her hands shake as she lifts the plates. She’s made her home on the edge, it seems, and she’s peering over it into a dark chasm as she explains, her words wavering like her hands, “I have Ella for this.”

Killian pats her on the back gently, and their eyes meet for a second as they both turn, and if there were anything knowing in his gaze, it’d be hidden by the sleepy drooping, the way his lashes practically touch his cheeks, his eyes so close to shutting that he might as well be sleepwalking towards the bar.

“I have Ella for this,” she firms her tone because the itch is raking its way up her spine, starting from where his hand touched her and edging ever upwards as his fingers trail away one by one - and he sounds too tired to be indulging her in this and _she’s_ too tired to want anything else but for him to indulge her.

If only for a moment, if only because he combed his fingers through her hair and made her feel like this could be okay.

“Well, I already sent Ella home,” Killian says with a shrug.

Emma huffs. Annoyance is easier. Annoyance, she can handle.

“You can’t send my workers home, Killian.”

“I can if they believe it’s on your order. For some reason, she trusts my word,” he laughs like it’s a good joke.

Emma trusts his words.

“Ella has a fairy godmother. Of course she trusts in the fantastical,” Emma says.

He looks at her - too long, his gaze too contemplative - and says, “Fantastical, eh?”

Emma carries herself away from him, back towards the kitchen, Killian’s footsteps echoing heavy behind her.

Coming up behind her while she’s placing the plates in the sink, he says, “Ella wanted to get home to her daughter.” Emma turns into him sharply, and he smiles soft and clarifies, “It’s cake night. They’re making a chocolate one this time. Sounded rather decadent.”

Emma stumbles, falling back against the sink, shaking the plates against each other. “I completely forgot and I kept her so long.”

She bites her lip in frustration, grabbing the glasses out of Killian’s hands with slipping fingers and turns away from the question in his eyes. Setting these down beside the plates, she stares at the foamed lip of the dirty glass and frowns deeply.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. It was a busy night,” Killian says.

“I should’ve remembered,” Emma insists

Because he’s right but he’s also wrong. It was busy, but _she’s_ still wrong for forgetting, for keeping Ella here when she should’ve been home with Alexandra. Emma needed her, yet -

She has Killian, and he has no obligations except to be here, as he’s so often said, but the weight of it always sinks uncomfortably, being his obligation, and it’s a heavy load to carry even on nights when he’s merely waiting for her to turn down the lamps before he heads out. At the best of times, she feels like an obligation. At the worst of times, she feels like a burden - and at times like this, she’s well past being a burden and looking for more, to drop more on his shoulders -

Or perhaps have him drop his hands on hers -

Emma misses when he reaches out, only feels it when his fingers ease over her temples, rubbing in gentle circles. She breathes harsher at the touch - the edge feels a little bit closer as he presses behind her and she’s scared to fall over it into that gaping chasm and let it swallow her whole.

“We can fix up the tables tomorrow. I think this evening is calling for an end, don’t you?”

His fingers still on her forehead and his hands pull away only for him to grab her and slowly spin her around to face him. She closes her eyes for a moment - needs to before she can look at him, look at the offering in his eyes and let herself slip over that edge.

Falling, she’s falling and even though that chasm looks just a bit bluer at the bottom, Emma still doesn’t know how to voice what she really needs right now: to not feel like the worst person alive for keeping a mother from her daughter, for keeping him here, and for _needing_ to have someone understand - for that someone to be him.

Always him.

“It’s just us here,” Killian says.

She wets her lip with her tongue for it feels unbearably dry.

“You can tell me, Emma. It’s only me.”

_Only_ him.

She breathes out, embarrassed at the quiet of her voice when she replies, “I should’ve remembered, I know. I feel terrible.”

“You’re definitely not terrible,” Killian says. Looping his arm around her waist, he pulls her away from the sink and leads her towards the stairs to her rooms. As her feet hit the planks, he falls back behind her, keeping one hand on her lower back. She relaxes into that and lets him guide her to room even though he’s the one that probably needs guiding, considering his exhaustion.

“Why are you so tired?” she asks as they reach her bedroom.

In the chaos of the evening, she never got a chance to really talk to him, and she’s thinking - miles a minute, far too much, she just wants everything to quiet for a moment - she’s thinking and his voice is so soothing as he replies, “Working on one of the ships today. It was quite the task. I feared I wouldn’t get a chance to come by tonight actually.”

He pauses for a moment and she chances a glance behind her to find him smiling thoughtfully.

“I’m glad I did.”

She nods her agreement and moves away from the soothing caress of his hand, is about to turn on the lamp when she thinks better of it, something about the moment begging for the cover of dark - something about her blush at his words begging for her to hide.

“It was a bit inspiring actually,” he says. “I now know exactly the kind of ship I don’t want to have. Those cargo vessels are poorly made.”

She sighs into this, shaking her head in relief, and says, “Not all of them, I’m sure.”

“Enough of them,” Killian argues.

She snorts. “You worked on one ship, Killian.”

“One is enough,” Killian says, digging his heels in, petulant like only he can be.

Emma laughs - cut off only when his hand encircles her waist and he draws her back against him and says, “How anyone with a laugh like yours can think themselves the worst is beyond my understanding, and while I admit, there are many things I do not understand, for the life of me, this is the one that confounds me the most.”

“ _Killian_.”

She’s half-embarrassed by the soft moan of his name, would be more so if he wasn’t rubbing circles into her stomach and stealing most of her mortification away for worse reactions - for the shiver in her belly, the heat pooling beneath his hand and spilling lower.

She places her hand atop his and his touch stills as he leans in close enough to nuzzle her hair, “You want me to talk about my day because it’s easy, right, but you’re deflecting. Any other time, you know I’d let you, but that isn’t what you need right now is it? Tell me about your day.”

“I don’t want -”

“But you _need_.”

It’s so stupid, the sound that catches in her throat at his acknowledgement. What’s worse is how she leans back against him, all thoughts of moving from this position gone with the press of him against her.

“I slept late this morning. I didn’t want to get out of bed because I felt - sometimes waking up alone is hard, so I didn’t want to wake up at all.”

He slides his hand from around her and steps away, and bereft, Emma stiffens, surprise jerking her towards him when he says, “Turn on the light, Emma. Stop trying to feel your way through the dark.”

Quiet steals its way into her chest at that, only to be forced out by her panic.

“This corset is crushing my lungs,” she says and without looking at him she crosses to her armoire, grabs her night clothes where they’re hanging just inside the doors and disappears into the washroom.

She takes a moment just to breathe - and then a second one to bring that breathing back to something manageable. Taking her time undressing gives her the much needed time to deal with the way light spills into the washroom from her bedroom. It gives her just enough time to be prepared to find him lingering by the paintings on her wall, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers.

He turns when she steps into the room and nods towards the bed, his head tilting slightly in question.

Emma nods firmly - and takes a chance when he reaches out his hand, grabbing it and holding on while his calloused palm scraping against her softer skin. His fingers are impossibly soft and the contrast settles in - how he’s poorly trying to hide his yawn but still finds the energy to pull her into her bed, to ease her beneath the sheets before he shirks his own shoes and shirt.

He’s warm against her as he says, “I turned on the light.”

“I noticed,” Emma drawls, smiling despite herself, despite how she’d much rather be hiding in the dark.

Killian rolls to face her and he says, “I want to see you when you smile,” while staring at her, his gaze brighter than it has any right to be when she can see the exhaustion in the corners of his eyes.

It draws another smile, a wider one, because he’s here, wanting to see it and she wants to please him, wants that answering smile, the curl of delight - “You have the perfect smile” - and as he reaches up to touch her cheek, she doesn’t help the way it spreads enough to dimple her cheeks because he traces those dimples and insists, his tone begging even, like he doesn’t think she’ll believe him when he says, “You won’t have to wake up alone.”

He’s the only one she believes.

“You’re not the worst,” Killian says.

“I’m not,” she says merely because it makes his eyes open and gods, when he looks at her, he looks _proud_. Her heart flutters in her chest.

“Are you ready to sleep?” he asks.

She nods.

“Want me to turn out the light?”

She nods to that too and before he can, she turns over to flick off the lamp, casting them in darkness again, but she doesn’t feel like hiding, feels like rolling over to face him, but he moves in closer to her, and she pauses instead letting out a quiet, “Thank you.”

He curls his fingers in her hair at that, and there’s a raggedness to his breath, and gods, she knows she’s about to spiral into feeling bad about keeping him awake, but he massages her scalp and says, “You look beautiful in the morning light.”

She spirals into sleep instead, falls over that edge into the blissful darkness only to awaken in the light, shining bright on her face, yellows, pinks and oranges cut through with blue - the blue of his eyes as he says, “I was right.”

“You were right,” she says in wonder because it’s beautiful, the light of his smile and she’s caught in it, wound up so tight that it must be shining right through her.

“You were right.”

-

His hands are freezing.

Killian blows over the tips, attempts to rub heat into them, but there’s no use in it when the snowstorm is gathering around them. Any other day, he’d be cursing the swirl of white, but he merely lifts his hand to the storm and catches snow on his fingertips, turning his attentions to how it melts on his fingertips, and how it melts Emma’s frown.

It makes a valiant attempt to keep lining her brow but the snow won’t take no for an answer, and neither will the Queen, her royal majesty Elsa as she reaches out her hand for Emma to take.

“Go on! The little ones are waiting,” Killian calls out to her.

Emma rolls her eyes at him even as she grabs Elsa’s hands and says, “You’re one to talk. They’re screaming your name.”

“They always are,” Killian says. He sighs dramatically, “They adore me.”

“Someone was bound to,” Emma replies.

Elsa lets out a laugh, and it’s nice to see, the way Emma reddens and Elsa’s cheeks pink and she turns to him as well to say, “Don’t be so hard on him, Emma.”

“That’s me - hard as nails,” Emma says.

“What an invention, Swan. As a maker of nails, I could only hope for the artistry to construct you.”

“Oh, shut up,” Emma grumbles.

He really wasn’t looking to burn the red into her cheeks, but it does, and he opens his mouth to distract as Emma turns her head away from Elsa, hiding as best she can -

“He could only hope,” Elsa says. “You can be prickly, Emma, but hard as nails is too much, I agree.”

With that, she tugs Emma closer, and says, “Come on, they’re waiting.”

Elsa doesn’t glance back as they disappear into the storm, but Emma, she does, the furrow back in her brow.

-

Her expression sours as she approaches closing time to find several customers still lingering at their table. It is long past midnight, they should’ve gone back to their ships by now; she _knows_ these sailors in particular are off tomorrow and yet, they’re taking her closing time as some kind of suggestion.

She plasters a smile on her face with difficulty and stalks across the floor, calling out, “It’s closing time. Can I order you something to help you on your way?”

She will gratefully fill their flasks for _free_ if it’ll get them to leave.

“Come on, lass, just a little longer. We’ve got a good game going,” one of the sailors protests.

“You can take your game down the street. Cruella’s will still be open.”

She really doesn’t mean it to be so sharp. She doesn’t mean it to sound like an order, and gods, she’s trying, _trying_ to be what Elsa and Killian believe her to be, but she’s as hard as always.

A nail to hammer the point home.

She hears one of them curse quietly, and several of them eye her angrily. Still, there’s a grudging scraping of chairs and the clatter of coins on the table. The dice disappears in one sailor’s pocket, more coin into another, and one of them even tips his hat at her as he leaves, a grit of teeth as he says, “Goodnight to you, too, then.”

She knows she shouldn’t feel _bad_ about expecting them to respect her hours, but there’s a tip on the table and she didn’t nearly pay them near enough attention this evening to deserve the generosity.

Emma sighs and collects the coin, and on Ella’s way out, she drops it into her hands.

“What’s this for?”

“A tip from one of your tables. You must’ve missed it while you were cleaning,” Emma says.

Ella smiles bright and happy. “Oh, thank you, Emma. Have a good night!”

There’s no anger to Ella’s words (why should there be? It’s a question that should be easy to answer, but nothing is ever easy, nothing, not a thing -)

Yet, it still stings like the sailors’ departure because a good night is not what’s in store for her, not when she’s feeling particularly stiff, the feeling running deeper than her bones.

“I know that it’s closing time, but I needed to see you,” a voice announces behind her. She near jumps out of her skin, but Killian soothes her back into it with his laugh, raucous and loud, “I didn’t mean to scare you, Swan. I thought you heard me come in.”

“Why did you need to see me?” Emma asks.

Gods, that comes out sharp, too, but at least he deserves it, at least she can hide it beneath her momentary fear.

He grins.

“Perhaps, I just wanted to share in your company this evening.”

She stares at him.

He rolls his eyes so dramatically that she’s surprised they don’t just fly out of his head into the sky they’re trying to reach, and says, “Perhaps, I’ve found the one.”

“The one?” Emma asks.

She sounds breathy, scared and she damns herself for it – for acting like he’s about to run off and leave her behind. He came to see her, came to see her, came to -

“My ship. Why do you -” He peers at her, concern erasing the smile from his face and leaving his eyes wide, “What’s bothering you, Emma?”

“If I said nothing would you leave it be?”

He doesn’t say anything, so she sighs, and says, “What I thought.”

“You know me too well,” Killian replies.

Emma bites her lip. “And you know me. Killian, am I too abrasive?”

He looks genuinely perturbed, and says, “Not in the slightest,” reaching out his hand to cup her cheek and tilt her head to him.

He stares down at her and says, “Come on. Let’s get you upstairs.”

“I’m not - I don’t need that,” Emma says.

“I know. But perhaps I do. Will you indulge me, Emma?”

She wants to say “no.”

She wants to not lie to herself.

Gods, she wants to say -

“Yes.”

“You’re too good to me,” Killian says and releases her chin, being good to her in turn, to give her a chance to calm down.

“I’ll lock up, why don’t you get ready for bed?” Killian says.

“Yeah, good idea,” Emma says.

She moves towards the stairs quickly, and by the time she’s in her night clothes, he’s made it up the stairs. He leans in her doorframe for a moment and Emma has to roll her eyes at him and makes her way towards her bed.

“Tell me about this ship,” she asks as she climbs beneath the covers.

“She’s a beauty. Jewel of the Realm, she’s called.”

She’s tired and needy, but she isn’t stupid. She narrows her eyes at him as he steals his way beneath the sheets beside her.

“Is this a royal vessel?”

He scratches at his neck and says, “I know what you’re thinking, but she’s not from this kingdom and oh, Swan, she is almost as lovely as you.”

She’s tired and needy, but she still manages the sarcasm somehow. “Being compared to a ship, wow. Certainly makes a girl feel beautiful.”

“Does it?”

She holds his gaze this time until finally he says, “I know I swore off royal vessels, but she’s the _one_.”

“They don’t sell those,” Emma says.

He gets the soft pleading eyes and Emma has to blink that from her view while he says, “True, _but_ -”

“No “but,” Killian.”

“We could steal the ship. Together,” Killian says.

“ _Really_?”

He laughs at her surprise and beneath the sheets, he searches out and grabs for her hand. Rubbing her knuckles, he says, “You could make a great pirate, love, don’t sell yourself short.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” Emma rolls her eyes, a grin loosened from her lips.

“Why not? You haven’t smiled enough today, I’m sure of it.”

Emma turns into him and rolls her eyes. “You didn’t even see me today,” she argues.

“I always see you,” he says.

She’s caught in the quiet confession. His ears are turning red at the tips and she doesn’t know why he should be the one to be embarrassed by this when she’s snuggling closer to him, so eager -

It’s a mistake to trap his hands between them because, as he draws them out, his fingers trail over her belly and she shivers. There’s no mistaking the intent in Killian’s eyes when he does it again and she chokes back a noise - can’t hold back the fluttering of her eyelids, especially when he repeats the motion for the third time, an actual tickle this time that pulls a laugh from her belly.

“Ticklish, are we?”

“No,” she lies, and badly, too, because it ends on a giggle as he tickles her again.

“What sinful lies you speak,” he teases, and she has no real protest to that, only to the way he keeps tickling her.

Emma tries to slap his hands away but he presses a little harder, finding the spots that are most sensitive and attacking them with fervor. They roll and somehow she ends up on her back beneath him, laughing so hard that she’s sure she’s going to die like this.

She twists her fingers around his shirt pulling to try to get him to fall forward so she can buck him off her, but he’s too absorbed in making her squeal. Emma tugs hard, lifts an elbow, pushes her knees forward, tangling them even more and still she can’t distract him, still she laughs at his searching fingers, all over her sides, at her armpits, looking for the spot that’ll make her -

“Killian, please,” she begs, tears in her eyes.

His fingers pause on her and she’s about to push him off with the little strength left in her when she blinks away the tears in her eyes to see him clearly. His eyes flicker over her form before they settle completely on hers, his eyebrow lifting slightly as he lifts his mouth in a half smile.

“Our Queen of Ice is wrong, you know. You’re not prickly at all. Actually, you’re quite soft, Emma,” Killian says.

Her fingers slacken completely, and without meaning to, she lets herself go soft beneath him, soft _and_ light. She feels like she’s being carried away by that smile, floating for once, and not drowning in the gentle way he caresses her cheek with his hand.

Floating and the only thing she’s aware of is how he presses against her and how she very much wants him closer, close enough to -

He leans down and she shuts her eyes as his body covers hers more completely, his neck close enough that she can breathe into it, nuzzle the warm skin for the briefest of moments - consider what it would feel like to touch him with her lips instead, let herself imagine how good it would feel to let herself just have him -

“Emma,” he breathes her name quietly.

She opens her eyes and tries to pull away, wants to see, does he want her, could he want her the way she’s wanting...

Killian’s the one that pulls away.

The lamp light goes out with a flick of his fingers, cloaking the room in darkness. His heat goes like the light, Killian lifting himself off of her and rolling away and -

She can’t stop herself from the broken, “Wait.”

His response is slow to come, but finally he says, “Yes?”

“Stay with me?”

Maybe he doesn’t want the way she wants right now, with her heart pounding rapid fire beats, but he gives her this anyway, rolling closer again to make himself comfortable.

“Of course,” he says.

-

He didn’t know how he thought this would be _easy_ , curling up beside her and telling her all the things he knows to be true - and he’s not saying that it’s hard, but there’s only so much truth he can give without spilling it all.

“Easy” is not what he would call the feeling.

(The plank he’s walking growing ever shorter the longer he keeps this up.)

And he didn’t think he could love her more - and he’s not saying that he does because there’s never been any depth to the love he holds for her, but she opens her arms to him and the depths become clearer, the lengths he would go to keep that smile on her face -

She meets him at the docks, arms tucked tight around her because of course, she left without a coat, so it’s her bare arms, freckled from elbow to shoulder that he stares at long enough for her to grow annoyed.

“Your offer is kind,” she drawls, “But I’m fine. Show me the ship.”

He places his hand on the small of her back and guides her down towards the ships moored in the north. They’re larger vessels, the royal ones that stop in port from time to time on their way to the larger cities of Misthaven and Camelot.

“There she is,” he says, and lets the sight of the ship before him catch his attention only for the second in between her sharp intake of breath and the soft exhale.

“She is beautiful,” Emma says. She leans against him – he knew that she was cold, and she may not want his jacket, but he isn’t hurt for it’s even better that she wants his warmth – and sighs. “But we’re not stealing her.”

“So noble,” he comments dryly.

Her laugh echoes off the water. “But not nearly noble enough for that kind of heist.”

“We could get you a tiara.” Killian says. He turns to her and the light nearly blinds him, dancing above her head, and he says, “But alas, it could never be a better crown than the starlight.”

She hushes beside him before she loops her arm through his, drawing herself even closer to his side. She stares out at the ship, but Killian only has eyes for her, and it’s astounding how she allows this with a soft, indulgent smile and still she can’t _see_ what he sees.

Still has to hear it from his lips before she believes.

She’s the only one who’s ever trusted his words so.

Time passes, long enough for him to find his cheek pressed to her head and her hand and her hand fisted in his coat before Emma breaches the silences and suggests, “We should head back, right?”

“Should we?” he asks.

He could stay here all night. With the Jewel before him and Emma beside him.

“Yeah, come on, Captain, I’ll walk you home. Better make sure you don’t try to pull off any daring solo heists.”

“Daring?”

“Stupid seemed unkind,” Emma says.

He laughs jovially. “But far more appropriate. Your home is the first stop,” Killian points out. He lifts his free hand to his neck to his neck, scratching thoughtfully. He looks back at the Jewel as he says, “Perhaps we should just end our night there.”

“Not tonight. I’m tired of you wearing your work pants in my bed. You should just leave clothes at my place.”

He’s gone. Utterly gone, and she may not need the words tonight, but he says them anyway, says them the only way he’s allowed, “Yes, I should.”

-

She’s dizzy with need tonight and it possesses her, so much so that he can read it in her eyes – and there have been moments between them before, “almosts” and “nearlys” but they’ve never so much as kissed.

Not until he instructs her, “Let me make you feel good tonight. Let me give that to you,” and she says, “Yes.”

“Yes,” is the only word she manages – and then she’s too busy trying to handle the way he presses her into her bedroom wall, trapping her between the hard surface and hard planes of his body.

She can handle this.

It’ll be okay if Killian’s mouth is sliding over hers and he’s whispering sweet nothings against her lips, her neck, and it is okay if she’s begging him for more because it’s only them.

It’s only _him_.

And god, it feels good when his jaw drags against her skin, the scrape of the coarse hair making her hips jump just enough to make her embarrassed, just enough to make her _not_ care for a second, not care at all that he’s murmuring, “Let yourself go, love. Just let me kiss you. Let me make you feel _good_. Do that for me.”

Not care at all when he prompts her, “Can you do that for me?”

She doesn’t respond for a second, not until he pulls back again and says, “Can you?”

She nods swiftly but he wants to hear her say it, she knows, because he doesn’t move, and finally she speaks, the silence broken by the jagged pieces of her words, “Can. I can do it. Please.”

“I know you can,” he says, and his mouth falls on her neck again, kisses hard enough to leave marks behind. “You’re so capable. You amaze me, love.” He sucks harder and a tiny gasp leaves her mouth while his hand bunches up her skirt, pulling it high enough for his other hand to find its mark.

She keens as he rubs her through the fabric, the touch tentative. He keeps kissing her, tracing his lips down her collarbone, licking at her skin.

“Tell me what feels good,” he says.

“Harder,” she begs.

His touch firms on her clit, more direct, enough to make her shudder, to leave the fabric clinging to her, where she’s wet and aching.

“Want me to go fast, love? Tell me what you need.”

“Please, it’s so much better,” she says.

He speeds up the circling of his fingers, rubbing the tight nub with enough pressure to make her cry out. Over the sharp intakes, shaky exhales, she can hear him speaking to her, “I only want to give you the best. You deserve the best. You’ve been so good for me,” he says.

She wants to be _better_ for him.

It’s that thought that rushes her higher, sends her sailing - his firm swipes over the swollen skin pushing her on, and she comes without a sound - pushing into him, relief, relief, _relief_ carrying her away, and it’s only Killian that keeps her grounded.

“Come back to me,” he murmurs into her skin.

Slowly, she gives in to the soft pleading in his voice, the gentling circles of his fingers over her clit, and the softness of his mouth at her neck as he eases her down.

“Are you here with me?” he asks.

“I’m here,” she replies.

“Good,” he says, but he doesn’t move to let her step away from the wall. He does pull his hand from between her thighs, but only so he can place both hands around her waist, and make it easier for him to slide his mouth over her own.

She sighs, a soft parting of her lips that she doesn’t mean to be invitation - and he doesn’t take it as so, not at first, not until she whimpers against his lip and finally, his tongue dips inside.

He tastes different from that first kiss. No longer does he taste like sweet escape, but gods, he tastes like coming home. She welcomes him eagerly, the warmth of him building an echoing heat in her chest like curling up at the hearth - not something she’s ever done except in her dreams, except right here, right now, with his mouth claiming hers.

It’s the gentleness of it that has her pulling away, sleepy, sated beyond imagining.

“Do you feel good, Emma?”

She nods, not because she’s afraid to speak this time, but because she just doesn’t have the energy for words.

“Mmm, that’s good.”

He steps back, giving her space to move past him and she does, edging her way towards her washroom but the silence that follows her passing makes her turn to look at him again.

He wavers in the same spot, but he’s staring off in the opposite direction. When he turns back, he seems surprised to find her watching him, his eyes widening slightly, and he says, “Sorry. Did you want me to go?”

She shakes her head.

“That’s good,” he says, but his voice is odd this time as he says it.

Like he isn’t sure.

-

The clatter and clash of their blades ring out loudly in the empty field, but that’s the only sound besides their breathy pants and frustrated grunts.

Frustrated.

He’s well beyond that.

Emma isn’t so much as frustrated as she is desperate, fighting him hard enough that her heels wrench daisies from their roots and he has to dig his own in just to stop from collapsing.

Perhaps they shouldn’t have gone so far, but it felt right to give her release. And more so, it felt _good_ to make her feel good.

He didn’t think of anything more than her when he stepped into this, but his subconscious doesn’t need his awareness, and now that it’s his conscious, he can admit that he has needs, too.

Maybe they’re much the same.

Because feeling wanted is something he’s never experienced. He’s come close to that as a blacksmith. He’s been welcome, even to Cruella and she swore he was stealing her customers by doing such good work – them not staying in port long enough for her to get their gold from them.

And feeling needed is something he’s never thought himself to be, not even as a blacksmith.

But Emma makes him feel both. When she’s whispering about her day and admitting her loneliness, her fears – that she used to wake up crying at Ingrid’s because she was afraid it’d be taken away from her –

Her sword nearly comes down on his head and he has to dive out of the way to leave the blow glancing him in the shoulder instead. His knees take it worse, and Killian groans, finding himself lying out on the ground again.

Emma’s down by his side in a second, whispering, “Are you okay?”

“Fine with you here, love,” he says.

She turns him onto his back and she strokes at his cheek, down his neck to his shoulder, and there’s a wideness to her eyes that has him repeating his words.

“Fine with you here.”

She sighs, and smiles, just enough to give the hint of dimples. Just enough for him to find a smile in return.

-

She lets Ella go early.

She has Killian, and she doesn’t need Ella to help her close up, doesn’t need anyone in the way she needs him, with that same desperation that’s been chasing up her spine every moment she hasn’t seen him.

It’s strange, how she doesn’t feel the way she usually does, with that painful ache in her chest of needing to feel more than what she is.

Emma knows who she is, mostly. Knows that she’s strong, she’s capable, and that she’s more than what this world has given her. Knows she’s worth something. Some days, she needs more. She needs confirmation, that she isn’t wrong.

Some days she feels _very_ wrong.

But today isn’t one of those days, and yet her need is there, boiling beneath the surface and when Killian inches closer to him, the words slip from her mouth, “Tell me I’m beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

Repeats it until they’re curled around each other in her bed and his hand is dragging her sleep pants down her thighs, her underwear with them and she’s _desperate_ , to hear more –

“Can I be good for you?” Emma asks.

“Yes,” he says. Killian’s brow lifts curiously. “You _always_ are.”

“I want to be better,” Emma says.

She doesn’t know how she can be but when she presses into him so she can kiss him, trapping his hand between her legs and stealing a whimper from his throat, she gets an idea.

He wants her.

His kiss tastes like safety this time, and he feels that way, with his hand softly rubbing her clit, enough to make her tilt towards him.

She reaches for him, too, stroking him through his own loose sleep pants and he breaks the kiss on a loud groan, “Bloody hell, Emma. Are you sure?”

She kisses him in answer, but he doesn’t return it, just pulls back to search her face with wide eyes. Emma can’t tell what he sees there, except it makes him close his eyes and mouth words too fast for her to see.

When he opens his eyes, Killian pulls his hand away from her and while she’s moaning at the loss, he rasps, “Let’s make this good for you.” As he’s gently rolling her onto her side, he keeps speaking, “Just want to make this good for you. That’s what I want.”

He spreads his fingers over her again, stroking over where she’s wet and hot – and then he pulls back only to push back in, tentatively. She feels him against the back of her thighs, the offer of more.

“Love, tell me what you want,” he says.

The ragged tone makes her buck back into him but she knows he needs to hear it, and it’s so easy this time for her to say, “You, please.”

“You ask so nicely,” he praises her and she flushes as she parts her thighs.

He pushes between them and says, “Do you know how good you make me feel, Emma?” his voice rough and heavy, as heavy as he is just resting between her thighs.

“I think I can tell,” she says.

“Can you? This is something,” he says, punctuating his words with a light thrust, his cock just barely brushing against her, when he pulls back, but enough to leave him slick. It’s enough to make him groan around his uttered, “But you are more than this. To me.”

She reaches back behind her, dragging his shirt up so she can claw at his bare skin.

“You’re everything,” he swears. He grinds against her again, dragging one hand around her to cup her breast through her top, rolling over it softly, and says, “You’re the only one who does this to me. You make me want - Emma it’s you, only you.”

Emma freezes, and tugs away from him, apologizing before she recognizes the words coming from her mouth, “Sorry, I’m sorry. I can’t.”

In the silence that follows, she _wants_.

She wants to tell him he’s beautiful. Wants to card her fingers through his hair, tug at that long piece at the back, make him _look_ at her and see, _really_ see that he’s –

Her hands shake with it, with the need, and it’s different than before, not like wanting him to hold her and tell her she’s good enough just the way she is. She doesn’t want to run from this, and that’s what scares her this time, that she wants to run to him.

It’s terrifying. It makes her stomach flutter and her heart stutter, and that gaping chasm she was so afraid of before is nothing compared to this.

Nothing compares to him.

_Killian, it’s you._

_It’s –_

“Do you want me to go?” Killian asks.

She doesn’t know what’s worse, him staying or him going, so she just shakes her head.

“I’ll stay,” he says.

Relief floods her chest, but that’s only until she realizes that it means an entire night spent with him without his hand in his hair or his mouth at her neck or her name murmured with the reverence that he seems to reserve for –

_Only you._

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Killian says.

He means it, the sincerity prickling at her eyes.

She means it, too, when she tests the words on her lips, mouths them so slow that if he were looking at her, he would know.

He always sees her, so Emma wonders if he’s seen this, too.

She spends all night wondering and –

He looks beautiful in the morning light.

“Morning,” he says like he’s not sure whether it’s good or not.

She’s not sure either but when he smiles at her, she smiles back and as he relaxes, she reaches to stroke his cheek, tickling her palm with his beard as he turns into the touch.

“Do you want to tell me something, Emma?” he asks.

“I’m not sure. Do you want to hear it?”

“Do I?”

His brows furrows in confusion and he searches her gaze for understanding.

“Do you want to hear it?” She repeats. “I need you to tell me you want to hear it.”

“Tell me,” he says.

“You’re so good to me, Killian,” Emma says, and he lifts his hand as if to reach for her, so she takes it, threading his fingers between her own. Squeezing firmly, she says, “Good for me.”

“I try,” he says, his voice croaking.

The look in his eyes is unmistakable. She’s worn it enough times to know.

He unlocks their hands and reaches for her, dragging her atop him. She goes with a soft moan, a gentle roll of her hips cementing her place on top of him.

“Tell me I’m yours,” she says. “I know that’s what you want. Can I give you what you want, too? Is that okay?”

“You’re mine,” he says softly, reverently, and his eyes start to burn with it, going nearly shot through with a deeper blue, he presses his hips into hers, holds her waist tight and repeats it with heat behind it this time, “You’re mine.”

“That’s what you want, right?” he asks, desperation in his tone. “You want to be mine?”

“Yes, yes,” she breathes out and he surges up to swallow the mantra, and it’s all she can do but to memorize the taste of him like this, coming home, it tastes like that, true, but he kisses her like a man possessed, like she has him, heart, mind, body and soul and he’s right, package deal, she gets it all and she’s happy to have it.

Mouth and all.

-

She watches him as he works, muscles bunching and tensing with each go at the smelting pot, and gets lost in the popping of the flames, the soft bubbling of the hot iron, and the gentle lilting of his voice as he sings to her.

Archie’s chirping can't compare.

Not even when he breaks it to curse at a tiny imperfection or when he turns to her, and says, “I’m putting you to work, love. Pass me the rag so I can wipe my brow.”

“No please?”

“Please _and_ thank you, beautiful,” he says.

-

She echoes the word – “You’re welcome, beautiful,” and there’s something so reverent in it that he doesn’t settle for wiping his brow, doesn’t settle for anything less than giving them what they both need and fitting himself against her, kissing her senseless, for her soft sigh is followed by a giggled, “Want to go steal the Jewel?”

He leans into her, pressing his forehead to hers, and says, “I’m content right here, if you are.”

She hums against him, and opens her eyes, and he sees the need echoed in her eyes – perhaps her request wasn’t so senseless after all; he gets the sense that this is just what she needed.

“Right here. With you.”

 


End file.
